CHAPTER XXXIII
A GENERAL VIEW
‘Any unbeliever in the reality of the command of the air being in the hands of Britain and her Allies,’ writes the editor of _Flight_, ‘must indeed be despaired of, after the daily records of the wonderful work of our pilots which are issued officially, combined with the unstinted paeans of praise emanating from every imaginable source upon this and the other side of the world. Quite recently again, Mr. H. G. Wells repeated his admiration of the Allies’ air-work; at the same time he entered the lists with General Brussiloff as prophet as to the duration of the war, Mr. Wells putting it at June, 1917.
Mr. Wells’ reasons for his prophecy are as follows: ‘I think so for a hundred reasons, but above all for these: The marvellous organization of the French front, the mastery of the air which is assured to our aviators—I was witness of it, and I should rather say the exclusive possession of the air. Then the photographic marking by aeroplanes, in which the French take first rank. Lastly, by your artillery fire, which demolishes, methodically and mathematically the enemy batteries without fear of reprisals.’
An interesting communication upon the same subject has just come to hand from the well-known correspondent of the _Chicago Daily News_, Mr. Edward Price Bell, in which he states that the British flying man is in the air every day between four and eight hours, constantly under fire. Ordinarily along the British front the flying men are in the air from two to three hours each day. Mr. Price Bell hits upon the basic reason for our superiority when he points out that our officers are always ‘hunting for trouble’ above the German lines, never declining a combat, and fighting, however outnumbered. Altogether he calculates that up to the latter part of 1916 British flying men on the Western front must have flown entirely over the enemy’s lines much more than a million miles.
An officer of the Royal Flying Corps, also writing of the supremacy of the Allies, says: ‘Man for man, we undoubtedly are masters of the air on the west front. This fact I attribute to the mental and physical training we give our boys in England. Our youngest pilots have done wonderfully well. They learn quickly, are intensely keen, have great alertness of mind and act instinctively.’
‘Our people have the tails up morally and mechanically,’ adds another, ‘and though they have plenty of fighting when they get to the other side of the lines, they are on the offensive all the time. The moral as well as the physical uplift is considerable, when one has a machine which will get above the German range of accurate fire in a quarter of an hour, and will do in or about 100 miles an hour when pushed. With such a machine one can attack and keep on attacking; and though perhaps not even the majority of our people are mounted on such machines, the worst machine at the front to-day is probably nearly as good as the best a year ago, and there are enough of the first-class machines to protect the weaker brethren. Despite all the errors of the past, our air service has certainly acquired dominance, if not absolute command, in the air, and for that fact very great credit is due to the officers who have so thoroughly reorganized affairs at the War Office, and who have so notably increased the performance and output of the machines now in use.’
The great improvement in the construction of machines for long-distance flying is particularly worthy of note. We have seen how Captain de Beauchamps, leaving France in the morning, flew in broad daylight as far as Munich, where he dropped bombs on the stations. Then turning at right angles towards the south, he flew over the whole of the Tyrol and crossed the Alps, to land at length 12½ miles north of Venice, in the village of Santa Dona, on the small River Piave, having journeyed without stopping a distance of about 700 kilometres.
Captain de Beauchamps holds the flight record for bombing raids on German towns, but the longest journey made by an Allied aviator during the war was that of Lieutenant Marchal, who visited Berlin on a previous date. He, however, only dropped pamphlets on the German capital, before making off to the Russian frontier. He came down sixty miles within the German lines, having flown over 800 miles.
Captain de Beauchamps was accompanied in his great flight to Essen by Lieut. Daucourt, who made at the time some extremely interesting entries in his logbook:
‘11 a.m. My friend Beauchamps has just gone, and I followed two minutes later. One thousand yards up, 2,000-3,000, we keep on getting higher and higher. The weather is clear with just a few clouds over 9,000 feet. The air is distinctly cold.
‘12 a.m. I am full over the Boche lines. We are seen and the anti-aircraft guns start a curtain fire a little forward but too high. The white puffs of the 77 make a line of smoke which I have got to cross. Soon the shots become more and more numerous; 300 shots at least must have been fired in a few minutes. Time after time I get right into the smoke of the bursting shells, and I can hear pieces of steel whistle near, very near. Oh! the Boche gunner rectifies his range. But he is too low now, so I go higher still, and I pass.... Now there are shots on my left, which burst with black smoke, 105 calibre shells. This is getting more serious. Shots get nearer, I point towards the left slightly, and, all of a sudden, I go ninety degrees to the left and drop straight towards the ground for 300 feet. The game is finished and the gunners done. Out of spite they shoot all over the place, and the shells burst now at the back of me. It looks as if I was going to get out of trouble without much difficulty.... Now where is my friend? I cannot see him. Has he been brought down? Has he changed his line? A little under me I can see a big, fat yellow ‘plane. Black crosses! It’s a Boche. Another one follows very near. The distance between us is about 600 feet, but they are slower than I am. Clac—clac—clac. It is Mr. Boche opening fire. The short bursts of his machine-gun keep crepitating. The brute does not shoot badly. Shall I engage him in a fight? It is really very tempting. But no, Essen is my only target, and I have no right to compromise, by a passing engagement, the success of our raid. I open my engine right out, and soon lose my aggressors.... As I fly over Treves I just distinguished on my left the outline of another ‘plane. It is getting nearer and nearer. The sun prevents me from seeing it clearly, although I seem to recognize the silhouette of my companion’s machine. No doubt it is he. I can now see his blue, white and red cocarde. And all of a sudden I feel very happy....
‘A little later I change my direction and go straight north, leaving Coblenz on my left. Far in front of me I can see a small grey ribbon ... The Rhine. It looks beautiful from up here. Somehow my confidence increases every minute. Sure everything will go well. I cross over the right bank. On the river many long convoys of barges go up towards Coblenz. If only I did not have a consignment of bombs to deliver, I should go down to gun them. It is funny how strong these temptations are.... Here is Bonn. My friend and co-raider is still on my right. My engine keeps on turning merrily, and I marvel at the ease with which I have covered these first 200 kilometres. A quick calculation shows me that we are going at the rate of about 130 miles an hour. It is a goodish speed. The weather is cold up here. My thermometer shows sixteen degrees below zero. To try and get warm I move arms and legs as much as I can in that cramped space. A few drops of peppermint which I drink warm my inside and cool my mouth.... Underneath the Rhine, and still more boats!... Now we pass a town which seems enormous. It is Cologne. What a splendid target it would make! But there are women, children, old people, and I am a soldier, not a pirate. I must only aim at destroying the military power of the enemy. Now I point straight towards Dusseldorf. But all the district disappears under a pool of smoke. What an extraordinary agglomeration of works! Here are Solingen, Elberfeld, Barmen, black country criss-crossed by innumerable railway lines and with hundreds of high chimneys, like guns, pointing to the sky. Down there a tremendous amount of arms of all sorts, guns, munitions, &c., all to be directed against us, are produced with a tremendous activity.
‘Essen at last. I am over what has been considered as the heart of Germany, over the town which stands as the symbol of brutal force. Where now are the Krupp’s works? There, at the west of the town. How large they are! The shops and buildings, between which trains are running, seem innumerable. The attempts to disguise it are indeed foolish. It is the most perfect target one can imagine. Now I suppose I am going to be _strafed_. I look here and there for bursting shells. Nothing! They aim too low. However, some very violent waves of air of which I do not understand the cause disturb for a moment my bombing preparations.
‘2 o’clock. The centre of the works pass. I drop my torpedoes in rapid succession. My friend, who is over me and a little on the left, drops his also. I guess, more than I can exactly see, as I am so very high, that underneath in the works the people suffer from a sort of madness. There are rushes of people soon hidden by clouds of smoke which rise from many points. Nearly at the centre it seems that there is a formidable explosion, followed by intense fire. What a joy to have attained one’s aim! Krupp has been bombed, in full daylight, in spite of its anti-aircraft guns and of its ‘planes. I suppose that now the Boches must be mad with fury, and will try to chase us. Never mind, my mission has been fulfilled. I will fight enemy ‘planes if they come.... Here I am again over Dusseldorf, but not going so fast as in coming. The wind, which has veered, hampers me. A quick verification of my oil and petrol tanks. All is well; I can keep up for another six hours. The clouds get denser and denser. There is at some moments a thick mist, which veils completely the ground. As I am browsing, some explosions thunder louder than the noise of my engine. I turn right round, so that the Boche gunner loses the range. But as I turn I see 1,500 or 2,000 feet under me three Boche ‘planes who are giving chase. Their machines are as fast as mine, but as soon as they try to go up they lose ground. I slacken for a few seconds, and going straight towards the most forward of them, I serve him at about 150 yards with three bursts of my machine-gun. Unnerved, he prefers not to engage a fight and flies towards the left. But the others are attacking me from the back. It is time to go.... Have I wounded my opponent? I don’t think so, as he seems to be flying straight again, but very much lower. Soon the two others are only black spots.... The chase has lasted over thirty minutes, and I have got a real stiff neck, so often did I turn round.... Now I have been up six hours. Time drags dreadfully. My eyes hurt, and I suffer from the cold. Evidently I am over Belgium now. But where? I must know. I come down, engine stopped. How sweet is that silence, after six hours of tempest! Four thousand feet; it is low enough.
‘6.30. I cannot stand it any more, I am coming down, 7,000 feet, 5,000 feet, 1,000 feet. I cannot hear the guns any more. But what are these? Bivouacs. Am I in France? I keep on for another quarter of an hour, going south, and finally alight in an immense field, far from a village. If I am on the territory invaded by the Germans I’ll fly away under their nose. I am at the end of the field, ready to start again in case of need. I have kept my engine turning slowly. After five minutes of waiting, some people come running towards me—peasants. I shout to them at the top of my voice, “Where am I?” “At Champaubert,” they answer me. What a joy is mine! I am in France. Back, after having succeeded in what seemed to men an impossible enterprise.’
It is particularly interesting to note that in their remarkable flight both Captain de Beauchamps and Lieutenant Daucourt used machines of British manufacture.
We have seen that the officers and men of the Royal Naval Air Service have also to their credit many long-distance flights. Indeed, in all respects the R.N.A.S. have kept at ‘level-fight’ with the R.F.C. The two Services work, however, under different conditions. The following is an extract from a report from Admiral Sir John R. Jellicoe, G.C.B., G.C.V.O., then Commander-in-Chief, Grand Fleet: ‘_Iron Duke_, August 23, 1916. Sir,—With reference to my dispatch of June 24, 1916, I have the honour to bring to the notice of the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty the names of officers who are recommended for honours and special commendation. Where all carried out their duties so well it is somewhat invidious and difficult to select officers for special recognition.’
We have seen, however, that many naval aviators have been decorated. In addition to the names already given, mention must be made of Flight-Lieutenant F. J. Rutland, who has been decorated with the Distinguished Service Order for his gallantry and persistence in flying within close range of four enemy light cruisers, in order to enable accurate information to be obtained and transmitted concerning them. Conditions at the time made low flying necessary.
This is also a fitting place to record that it has been officially announced that the King has conferred the Distinguished Service Cross on Flight-Lieutenant Charles T. Freeman, R.N.A.S., for the following act of gallantry: On the night of August 2, 1916, he made a determined attack on a Zeppelin at sea, only abandoning the attack when he had exhausted all his ammunition. As darkness was approaching at the time, and his chances of being picked up were problematical, his courage and devotion in returning to the attack a second and third time were exemplary.
There is every indication that our airmen are becoming more heroic and skilful each passing day. Touching their great service in dealing with enemy airships, the editor of the _Aeroplane_ writes: ‘One of the commonest and cheapest jeers of certain papers which have adopted anti-Churchillism as part of their political creed has been the constant jibe at the late First Lord of the Admiralty that the defence which he promised against enemy airships has not been forthcoming. It is now many, many months—in fact, it runs into years—since Mr. Winston Churchill informed the world that, if enemy airships ventured to invade this country, they would be met by ‘a swarm of hornets’ which would make them regret that they had ever come.
‘At that time the defence of England was entirely in the hands of the Navy. The Army was still piously supposed to be the Expeditionary Force. Naturally, as part of the Navy, the R.N.A.S. was supposed to be responsible for the defence of the country against aircraft; a perfectly logical position, and an eminently sensible one, for the Navy has always been able to obtain all the money it has wanted for any scheme it might have in hand. Consequently there seemed to be no reason why Mr. Churchill’s rhetorical phrase—to which one might have returned the time-honoured question, “Is that a threat or a promise?”—should not have become before long a literal truth. There was one point on which all of us seem to have tripped up, however—namely, that in talking or thinking of invasion by aircraft we all pictured to ourselves a fleet of machines coming over in broad daylight, and the world’s aerial navies grappling in full sight, complete with central blue as fitted. None of us seems to have had the sense to see that nocturnal invasions would be very much more effective, both morally and practically, than any daylight show could have been.
‘If the Germans had sent their airships over early in 1915, in daylight, they would certainly have been wiped out by aeroplanes. We had very few aeroplanes then; not a fraction of the number we should have had if the supply of engines and machines had been properly handled before the war by the Government. But nevertheless, we had some few, such as Sopwith tabloids and Bristol scouts, quite capable of reaching and catching and destroying any airship of that period, if it could be seen. The destruction of the very first Zeppelin ever brought down by an aeroplane—that which ultimately wrecked itself after being damaged and made uncontrollable by Squadron-Commander Bigsworth, R.N.—proves it, for this officer was flying a standard 80 h.-p. Avro, a considerably slower machine than either of the single-seaters mentioned. The Germans spotted this quickly enough, and so their ships only came over at night, with the result that for over a year they came and went unhindered, so far as defensive aeroplanes were concerned. The only people who suffered were the gallant young officers of the R.N.A.S., who went up to try to abolish the airships.
‘The Admiralty published openly the names of those killed in these operations. Young Mr. Lord, of Newcastle, was, I believe, the first victim. He was killed in the south of England when trying to land a fast scout in the dark. Much about the same time Mr. Hilliard was killed through the bombs he had on board his Caudron exploding as he landed. Mr. Richard Gates was killed when landing a Henry Farman in the dark. Mr. Barnes was killed through landing a big Sopwith pusher in the early morning fog after flying all night. There may have been other deaths, but those are all I recall in the early part of 1915. There were many other officers injured, and still many more marvellous escapes. I have been told how an officer jumped out of his machine near the ground, chancing where he fell rather than risk being blown up by his bombs. Another officer had a still more extraordinary experience. He landed on a Caudron, and his bombs blew up. Subsequently investigation showed clearly where his skids first struck the ground. About twenty-five yards farther on was the wreck of the machine and engine, all burnt to bits by the petrol set on fire by the bombs; and about twenty yards farther still was the place where the pilot had finished having a private fire of his own. Seemingly the first shock had jarred and bent the stems of the bombs and released the firing mechanism. The second shock had exploded them, had blown the whole machine to pieces, had burst the petrol tank so that the spirit splashed all over the pilot and caught light, and, finally and fortunately, had blown the pilot clean out of the machine into some longish grass, where he fell without being stunned, and rolled over and over till he put the flames out. I gather that his worst injury was a rather burned hand, due to his glove falling off while he was beating the flames out on his coat.’
Never must we forget the debt we owe to these heroes of the Royal Naval Air Service. They have played, as we have seen, a most heroic part.
And we would bear in mind the fact that the work of our heroic aviators covers the _whole_ field of the World War. In Mesopotamia, for instance, much good work has been done. A correspondent of the _Daily Telegraph_ wrote in October, 1916: ‘On the night of the 19th one of our aeroplanes raided an enemy aerodrome at Shumran, dropping eight 20-pound bombs, which fell all round a machine, apparently damaging the same, and putting out lanterns left on the ground by the guard, who fled on the aviator’s approach. Early in the morning of the 26th two of our aeroplanes successfully bombed a hangar, descending to 100 feet. One of our machines was damaged. A bullet cut a control wire, and the aeroplane “nose-dipped” 1,000 yards, but the pilot succeeded in righting the machine and landed safely. The Turks, believing they had destroyed the machine, started cheering in the trenches. Several exposed themselves, and were “picked off.”’
At a later date news came from Mesopotamia of an affair which afforded a striking instance of aeroplanes working in co-operation with cavalry. Mounted enemy irregulars had driven off our camels on the left bank of the river, and were proceeding north-west. Two aeroplanes were sent out with machine guns to attack the raiders. Our aviators soon passed over scattered bodies of mounted men, who were taking cover in nullahs and firing at the machines. These were driven out by machine-gun fire from the aeroplanes, and, breaking into small groups, made for the hills. Several were hit, and three or four killed. During the action our machines flew very low, descending at times to within twenty feet of the ground. After dispersing this body our aviators pursued the raided camels, which were seen being driven towards the hills by troops of irregular cavalry. Fire was opened from the aeroplanes, and the escort immediately abandoned the camels, retiring towards the mountains. A troop of our cavalry coming up recaptured the camels. The machines and cavalry continued to chase the raiders, inflicting further casualties.
Further reports from the same quarter show that on October 25, 1916, one of our aviators, returning from a reconnaissance, attacked a party of enemy irregular cavalry. After dropping bombs among them, he descended to 800 feet, firing his machine-gun into them, and killing many. In the evening five of our machines raided a cavalry camp by Shattlhai, dropped bombs, and again brought the machine-gun into action, causing considerable loss and panic.
All will remember how our aviators, overcoming many serious difficulties, dropped provisions into besieged Kut, thus enabling our soldiers to prolong their defence.
In Egypt also some very useful work has been done. The Officer Commanding has reported that on September 4, 1916, the Royal Flying Corps carried out a further raid on the enemy’s encampment at Mazar. One anti-aircraft gun was put out of action and a number of bombs were dropped with good effect on camps, supply depots, and camel lines. Further reports showed that on the following day two of our aeroplanes raided the Turkish aerodrome and aeroplane repair section at El Arish. Twelve bombs were dropped with good results. Enemy aeroplanes attacked our machines, but did not close, and only opened fire at long range. They ultimately gave up the fight, and our machines returned undamaged.
From Salonika news came in September, 1916, of an enemy machine being shot down on the seventh and of a second enemy machine being shot down on the following day north-east of Lake Doiran. The days that followed were equally favourable to the Allied airmen.
An account of the sensational landing of a French bombarding aeroplane containing two aviators has come from an officer in the Doiran district: ‘A piece of bursting shrapnel having severed one of the control wires of an aeroplane,’ he writes, ‘the machine began to dive head-foremost and was apparently lost. It was falling within the enemy’s lines, to the great delight of the Bulgarians. When within a hundred yards of the ground the observer managed to leave his seat, and succeeded in hoisting himself on to the upper plane of his machine, where, lying on the canvas, he was able to restore the balance of the machine by moving the plane by hand. The motor controls were undamaged, and as soon as the equilibrium of the aeroplane was restored it was able to return to the Allied lines and land without further mishap, with a bomb still on board.’
Another sensational incident was that of a naval observer in a ‘sausage’ balloon operating in Macedonia, attacked by two Fokkers, which fired a stream of bullets, piercing the ‘sausage’ at several points and destroying the telephone. The observer had on board a small machine-gun and a parachute. After having sent the contents of two belts of ammunition at his enemies, the gun jammed. He then threw himself overboard with his parachute, and fell for about 600 feet. At last, however, the parachute opened, and the observer landed safely. After which the balloon was repaired and he went up again.
From the Secretary of State for India news came in November, 1916, of aeroplanes being used in Indian warfare for the first time. Large Mohmand forces (estimated at 6,000) collected on the border opposite Shubkadr, and were dealt with by our aviators with remarkable effect.
Each passing day our heroic airmen add to their laurels. But it must not be supposed that so much has been accomplished without the loss of valuable lives. Many heroic men—aviators of whom we are prouder than words can tell—have made the supreme sacrifice.